


All Your Cracked Perfection

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, First Time, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 08:29:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6231538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Like silk," he rasps.</p><p>Sansa laughs. Her back hasn't been like silk for nearly half her life now. "Like burlap," she counters. He growls in admonition, the sound rough and feral, a stark reminder of the power of this man, of the violence that bled through every aspect of his life for so long.</p><p>"Silk," he insists, sounding nearly embarrassed to say such a thing, but determined to say it all the same. "Like embroidered silk."</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Your Cracked Perfection

**Author's Note:**

> For the valar_morekinks kinkmeme prompt: scar fetish

She'd suspected this was there, underneath. Perhaps not just like this, but she'd seen this in him years ago, when she was only a child and he'd dabbed gently at the blood coating her split lip as he kept her from finding death as long as she could bring Joffrey with her. Sandor Clegane is not a man many would call tender. Perhaps _no one_ would.

No one but Sansa.

She can feel the ridges of his scars as he ghosts his lips over her bare back, tracing the violence that has been so cruelly mapped out across her skin. It tickles and soothes in equal measure and she's torn between giggling and moaning, between squirming and sinking deeper into the feather ticking of her mattress. He visits her only at night, only after the fire is banked -less light for her to see him by?- and the world has gone quiet. He comes to her and shows her all the tenderness he'd once insisted he didn't have. 

His tongue traces a raised furl across her shoulder blade. Her whole body shudders at the wet warmth, unanticipated for all that she could have expected it with him here in her bed, looming over her naked form, his breeches rough against her thighs and hips where he straddles her. It's just that it's hard to imagine him doing such a thing, darting his tongue out to taste her like a kitten lapping up cream. He does it again and she shifts and squeezes her thighs together.

"Like silk," he rasps.

Sansa laughs. Her back hasn't been like silk for nearly half her life now. "Like burlap," she counters. He growls in admonition, the sound rough and feral, a stark reminder of the power of this man, of the violence that bled through every aspect of his life for so long.

"Silk," he insists, sounding nearly embarrassed to say such a thing, but determined to say it all the same. "Like embroidered silk."

Sansa's heart seizes at the clumsy compliment. She doesn't dare look at him. All she could do is weep like a child at his gruff tenderness, at the implication that her beauty has not been marred or ruined by what she's experienced, but rather enhanced. He tongues the ridge of scar again, then maps the valley of her spine with careful exploration, kissing, licking, nipping. His large hands span her waist, the tips of his fingers curled beneath her belly where it presses into the mattress. When he holds her, she truly feels like the little bird he calls her, like a creature made of air and speed, with delicate bones and fluttering feathers and a heart that beats strong and fast.

It has not always been like this. This is new enough between them to still be bright and unfamiliar. The first time she'd kissed him, he froze, standing as rigid as a statue of the Warrior as she clumsily stepped atop his boot-shod feet and stretched to reach his mouth. He'd kissed her back, despite himself. He haltingly, agonizingly allowed her to coax him, to court him in a way, though always he'd waited on her, always he'd do no more than respond. It was only the night she'd shed her gown, standing before him naked and vulnerable in her marked skin for the first time, that he'd finally thawed for her. Her scars give him permission. His own give him empathy. It is a new way to understand one another.

She turns beneath him, wriggling until she lies on her back. He sits back on his heels, a look so reverential on his face at her bare form that it warms her down to her toes. "Please," she whispers. She parts her knees, reaches up to pull him down to her, wanting him inside her, and with a groan he gives in to her urging. She kisses the twisted side of his face, holds him tight with both arms as he works his hand between them, making her body sing with need and readying her for what is to come. Another surprise. Another tenderness.

"You're sure?" he asks, pulling back to look at her.

Sansa nods. Smiles. Kisses him and tugs him back with her hands at his shoulder blades and her heels behind his thighs. When he slides inside her, she nearly cries. Few things in her life have ever felt so right; her mother's song as she brushed Sansa's hair by the fire. The squirm of Lady in her arms as a pup. And now him, now Sandor. Scars and all. If he's been the Warrior, then perhaps she's been the Maiden. And perhaps now they can become something new together.

Gods be good, they will.


End file.
